Sunday, October 31, 2010

Margret Atwood

The Rest.The rest of us watch from beyond the fenceas the woman moves with her jagged strideinto her pain as if into a slow race.We see her body in motionbut hear no sounds, or we hearsounds but no language; or we knowit is not a language we knowyet. We can see her clearlybut for her it is running in black smoke.The cluster of cells in her swellinglike porridge boiling, and bursting,like grapes, we think. Or we think ofexplosions in mud; but we know nothing.All around us the treesand the grasses light up with forgiveness,so green and at this timeof the year healthy.We would like to call somethingout to her. Some form of cheering.There is pain but no arrival at anything.